


Broken Bones and Burning Fires

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Getting Together, Healing, Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Panic Attack, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, heavy on the hurt, its v brief tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23963173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "There was blood dripping off his fingertips, falling with an almost rhythmic splatter against the ground."jaskier is attacked and kidnapped by some fun unnamed bandits.Lucky Geralt is there to save his skin before things get too bad.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 515





	1. bones break under pressure

There was blood dripping off his fingertips, falling with an almost rhythmic splatter against the ground. It stuck to his skin, running down his arm and pooling against him, slowly turning the dirt to mud. A sticky mud stained red from his blood. He did not know exactly where it was coming from, he did not think his fingers bore any cuts ~~yet.~~ Or maybe they did, and he was just too numbed to feel them.

The soft dripping seemed to reverberate around his skull, adding to his already throbbing headache. The pressure was so great that he feared it might split open at any moment, brain matter spilling into the dust alongside his blood.

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there for. Time seemed almost like a trivial matter, of little relevance compared to the pain he was in, every part of him, it seemed, screaming out in agony.

The pain came in waves, not truly subsiding between them, but seemingly numbing when his mind became too overwhelmed to truly register the state he was in. It would shut down, just for a moment. He had no idea how long those moments were, how long the numbing gaps between agony lasted, it could be seconds, minutes, _hours._ He had no way of knowing.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

It hurt to breathe. Every inhale, his rasping breath dragging itself in between the broken mess of his ribcage. When he had mind to, he hoped the damage was not severe. He hoped no splinters of bone pressed in too deep, puncturing the lungs. That would be such a slow death, painful and drawn out.

When he had energy to, he hoped for something quicker.

His vision had long gone fuzzy, unfocused eyes staring blankly out. If he truly tried, dragged his mind in and tried, he could for a moment focus enough to register the site before him. Pick out the forms his captors, silhouettes illuminated in the glow of the fire. They were sat so casually, back to him, no fear nor care given to the man who lay dying mere few meters away.

If he truly focused, pulling his vision even further in, he could see his wrists, rubbed raw against their confines. The rope was wound so tight, cutting into the flesh, pressure pushing on bones – he wondered if they would ever truly heal or if the damage would be irreversible.

He wondered if he would ever get the chance to find out. 

At least he did not feel them, his wrists existing in the numb void beyond his current conscious existence. His world narrowed so tightly in, centred on the pounding beat within his skull and the heavy rasping pull of his broken ribs.

His head felt so heavy, he wanted to let his eyes fall shut, let himself slip into the welcoming darkness.

He worried that if he did, he would never open them again. So instead he let his gaze drift upwards. Let his unfocused stare lose itself in the expansive darkness of the night sky instead of the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

A stuttering cough racked itself up from within him. He choked it out, tasting blood on his tongue. Perhaps a lung had been pierced, perhaps he would die, here and now. Deep dragging breaths slowly turning shallow and desperate, chest and mouth welling up with blood. He would drown, suffocating in his own blood beneath the stars.

The stars seemed so far away. At least, he thought, he would die beneath the beauty of a clear night sky. He apricated that. It felt… poetic.

A spark of panic bubbled up within him, a final grip of terror over the reality that this could be it, his final night alive, his final night in existence.

He did his best to push it down, losing it under the waves of pain and numbness, it would be a waste to spend his final moments panicking.

He did his best to let his mind wander, disappearing into the darkness, unable to deal with reality any longer.

His eyes continued to grow heavy. Soon his blinks seemed to last longer than the gaps between them. He was losing the will to keep them open, struggling to remember the reason to force them back open. He had just let them slip back closed, unsure if he would even bother to push them open again when he heard it. Muted cries, someone, somewhere, shouting.

It sounded so far away. As though it was underwater, it was happening somewhere, certainly, but not here, not where he was, in his bubble of numbed pain and darkness.

He heard the crack of bone, heard the crunch of his fingers _snapping,_ before he even felt the pain. Eyes snapping open, barely having time to register the sight of heavy leather boots pressing down on the delicate bones in his hand before their owner is sent sprawling, thrown prone against him.

He had thought he had been in pain before. It was as though his body was on fire, a choked scream ripping from his lips, as the figure disrupted every numbed nerve within him in their mad scramble to regain their footing.

For a moment his entire world was pain, nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. And then there was blood. Blood that was not his, raining down on him, he felt it splatter against his neck, his face, some dripping and falling into his mouth, still twisted open in pain.

He registered the drop of the body, saw the head hit the dirt before him, stared back into glossy, unseeing eyes. He registered it, but he did not understand what it meant. He did not understand what was happening.

A hand grabbed the scruff of his neck, tugging him up. He screamed again, kicking out and twisting with energy he had not known he still possessed. The figure relented, lowering him back down to the earth, where he sat, panting, eyes screwed shut, closing out the world. His ribs screaming out in pain. Gods above he hoped his lungs where still intact.

The figure moved, he heard them do so, coming round before him. He heard a shuffling, felt a warm breath ghost over his face. He did not look. He did not want to know. He could not deal with who or what was before him.

“Jaskier.”

Tired eyes snapped open, meeting familiar, shimmering yellow ones staring back.

The look of concern was less familiar.

“Jaskier.”

He did not know how to respond. Exhaustion, momentarily staved off, came swarming back. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

“Are you- _where_ are you hurt?” 

He shrugged in response. The simple movement jostling his dammed ribs even further. Where was he hurt? It would have been easier to list the places he wasn’t. He let his eyes shut, let himself teeter on the edge of the darkness once more.

Probing hands disturbed his rest, cutting lose his bonds, flicking over his body, taking note of each bump and bruise lining his broken skin. They stopped when they reached his ribs. He heard Geralt suck in a sharp breath. Fingers prodded, gently, running against the bones, feeling for sharp edges or broken shards.

Seemingly satisfied the hands continued onwards, checking the rest of him. Circling tired wrists, forcing them to move, to return the blood flow. Forcing curled hands to stretch, damaged bones and strained muscles screaming out at the movement.

Bandages where applied, to the worst of the bleeding. Others where wound tight around misplaced bones, in an attempt to push them back into place and hold them still, where they belonged.

He was lifted then, upwards, deposited hard against Roach’s back. Fingers scrabbling for the edge of the saddle, he had just enough mind to attempt to use his good hand to stabilise himself, keep himself from falling and breaking even more.

He needn’t have worried. Geralt’s large hand not loosening its firm grip on his thigh, until the Witcher had pulled himself up, into the saddle behind him.

Strong arms reached round, tugging him back against the firm chest behind him. One stayed, holding him tight and still, even as the horse started forward. The jostling step likely to have more damage to his rips if not for the arm helping keep them steady and still.

Here, finally safe, he lets his head fall back, hard against the Witcher’s shoulder. Lets his eyes fall shut, and finally allows himself to slip into the simple calmness of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll write more porn I said... definitely... gonna stop with sad boi hours and write more porn. 
> 
> Im... considering continuing this, doing like a morning after... idk yet.
> 
> thanks for reading


	2. Taking stock of losses gained

The world continued as though in a haze around him. He seemed to slip in and out of existence, catching snippets of reality. Snippets of the large hands, continuing to hold him in place, of jostling, murmured whispers, a hand on his forehead. Something pressed against his lips, tipped into his mouth, he spluttered at first, choking, but then drank deeply, letting the cold liquid sooth his damaged throat.

He thinks there where questions, though he can’t be sure. He certainly didn’t answer any, not with anything more than vague shrugs and incoherent mumblings.

At one point he thinks there where lips, ghosting over his sweat soaked forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. He wonders if they were real, or a phantom touch, created by his subconscious in an attempt to calm him.

There was definitely pain. His body ached. Before it had been too much, too overwhelming. He had not felt the twisted muscles in his legs, the gash on his shoulder, the knots in his back. But now, now he felt it all.

And his chest. Oh, each movement he dared to make, every shrug, shuffle, twist, cost him dearly. His rips screaming at the slightest turn. So, he tried not to turn, tried not to move, tried not to exist, to just let the world continue in its soupy haze of an existence and leave him be.

His world was a fuzzy mess of soft hands, cool water, and aching pain for almost two days before his mind cleared enough to let him once again comprehend existence. If he had thought about such a experience, _before,_ he likely would have assumed such a thing to be a gradual process, a slow growing return. But it was not. Instead he simply opened his eyes, suddenly once again aware of the world beyond his pained form. He could see the room around him, small, but surprisingly tidy. A small window through which the late morning sun snuck in, squeezing between the gaps in the thin, worn curtains.

He was in a bed, light blankets feeling heavy and hot against his bruised and broken skin. For a moment he focused in on his fingertips, one of the few parts of him to be without pain, letting them rub against the sheets, marvelling at the soft touch.

He risked a movement, wanting to turn over, to sit up, survey the room. He didn’t even make it onto his back, vision whiting out as his ribs screamed out their protests. His hand curled in the sheets he choked down pained sobs, trying to let his ribs settle once more.

Breathing through gritted teeth he waited for the pain to subdue as much as it could before trying again. Slowly this time, one arm curled around his chest, as though to protect it, hold it still.

He did not look at that hand, he could feel it, he did not want to see the damage, the damage to something so important to him as that.

With silent curses and choked sobs he slowly pulled himself round and up, settling back against the headboard, head lolling tired to one side. He dosed there, drifting back to sleep for a time. Judging from the change in light it was early afternoon by the time he re-awoke.

From his new position he had a clear view of most of the room. He could see their stuff, his and Geralt’s, dotted around the space, noting some the Witcher’s bags tossed haphazardly on the small table to one side of the space. He noticed his lute, propped against a chair, choking back more sobs when he noticed the large crack running the length of the instrument.

The damage was likely his own doing, he remembers swinging the instrument in desperation, battering one of the men grabbing him. He wonders where Geralt found it. Why he bothered to bring it given the condition it is in. He wonders where the other man is now.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. He jumps, startling out of his thoughts as the small door swung open to reveal the Witcher. The movement costs him dearly, as he doubles over in pain, struggling to get his breathing back under control.

Large hands rub his back, soothing words spoken just too softly to pick out and understand. He sits back up, slowly, willing the pain to subside once again.

For the second time in a few days his eyes fall open to meet those concerned yellow ones staring right back.

A cup seems to materialise between them, Geralt pushing it against his lips, encouraging him to drink. He accepts readily, his throat dry and parched. The cup disappears from his lips, and then the large hands are gently guiding him back down. One brushes gently over his forehead before retreating. 

“Geralt.” Gods, his voice sounds weak, damaged… broken. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the Witcher still before turning back to face him.

He realises he does not know what to say, his tongue seems to stick in his mouth. He blinks owlishly at the man, searching for something to say.

“Geralt.” He manages again, the word sounding slightly stronger than the last time. The Witcher hums, settling on the edge of the bed, watching him. He settles on a question, “where are we?”

“Safe.”

A non-answer, unhelpful but unsurprising. He tries again, “what happened?”

“I should be asking you the same.” Geralt sighs, looking away, “They say your ribs are broken, that’s the worst of it… it will take some time for them to heal.”

“How much time?”

“…a month, maybe more.”

He shuts his eyes. A month, confined to a world of pain, a month before he can travel again, a month before he can play- if he can ever play again. He feels the acidic burn of panic well up within him. He forces his eyes back open, tongue heavy in his mouth he forces out the words, asking the question he needs answered. “And my hand?”

Gods, he hates how his voice sounds asking it, small and weak, how he sounds, so desperate and _broken_.

Geralt places a gentle hand on him, resting it on his shoulder. He assumes the move is supposed to be comforting. Maybe it would be if it didn’t also cause so much pain.

“Your hand will heal. It wasn’t a bad break Jask, a few weeks and you will be able to use it again.”

He lets himself sink back with a sigh, some of the sick acidic taste that had been bubbling up within him receding at the news. He would be able to play again, one day, he just had to wait.

Wait a month, or more. He feels the panic settle within him, not dissipating as he had hoped but settling in his bones and turning to grief. His gave wanders back to his lute, battered and broken in the corner, and has to bite back the sob pushing its way through his throat. He does not want to cry in front of the Witcher.

“We will replace it.” He flicks back, sees Geralt had followed his gaze to the battered instrument.

“Where did you find it?” He asks not truly caring about an answer.

“It was on the side of the road, where they… took you.”

He nods to appease Geralt, show he’s awake enough to listen. His pride and joy left cracked and broken in the dust. Abandoned by its owner and left to rot, as he almost had been.

Geralt lightly squeezed his shoulder, repeats, “we’ll replace it.” The words failing to have the comforting effect he expects Geralt intended.

He feels Geralt shift, rising, and pushing him further down into the mess of pillows behind him. “Rest, Jaskier.”

He considers protesting, but he is tired. Tired of reality. So instead he listens, lying back and letting himself slip away, hoping to find at least some refuge from the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist... and now i've fallen into the trap of wanting to continue it even further... I'll leave it here for now tho.


	3. Healing's Never Pretty

Sleep comes easily for a time, exhaustion able to override all other needs, until it doesn’t. Until the pain over rid the need for rest, and his sleep became fitful and restless. Sore muscles cramping, startling him awake when he dosed. Any movement angering his ribs, leaving him wide eyed and panting, struggling against the pain.

While he’s lucid he tries to take his mind off the pain. Reading, when he has the strength to lift his head and comprehend the words written there. He takes a pass at writing, though more often than not he winds up staring blankly at a clear page. It’s hard to craft songs when you know it will still be weeks until you could play them.

Mostly he just lies there, staring blankly out, trying not to let himself think about anything at all. 

Geralt seems to come and go at random, gone more than present. the Witcher seems not enjoy being cooped up in the room for too long. He wonders if the man just misses the outdoors, or if there is something else going on.

In his darker moments he wonders if it’s his company that Geralt is running from.

His strength begins to return, slowly, slower than he would like. He wishes more of the pain would leave in return. The visible signs of it have begun to fade, smaller areas of bruising already turning yellow, beginning to fade away. Although his ribs remain an angry deep purple.

Minor cuts and scratches also begin to fade, to his delight. He can’t stand the site of his own blood anymore. It’s too visceral, a reminder of his trauma. The first time he was awake when Geralt changes is bandages he vomited, losing what little lunch he had choked down over the side of the bed.

He is glad when the bandages begin to come off still white or yellow with pus, not stained that dirty red they had been before.

Yet so much of the pain remains, deep in his bones, aches he’s not sure will ever fully leave him.

With his strength returns his ability to worry. As his mind begins to clear from its fog of pain and exhaustion it becomes harder and harder to let his mind remain a blank slate, the world slipping by unnoticed. And soon fears begin to creep their way in when he isn’t careful.

He worries at how long it is taking his body to heal, niggling thoughts whispering he may never be well enough to play again, well enough to travel again.

Traveling, the topic brings to mind enough fears of its own. He worries Geralt won’t allow his companionship any longer. The Witcher had never been exactly… enthusiastic about his presence, but Jaskier likes to think he has slowly warmed to having the bard near. At the very least he didn’t actively tell Jaskier to ‘fuck off’ as often as he had to begin with.

Jaskier worries that will have all changed. If he wasn’t overly keen to allow Jaskier close before… what would he think now. Now he would see Jaskier as a liability, a risk. The weak bard he has to go out of his way to protect.

Easier to leave him behind, tucked inside somewhere, hidden away from the world.

The thought of such a life is almost enough to make him scream.

He could of course continue his journey alone; he was well versed in traveling the open roads unaccompanied. But now thought of going, alone, unprotected… His heart spasmed at the idea, filling him with a cold sense of dread.

He wants to raise it with Geralt. But something holds him back from bringing the subject of travel, of leaving and moving on, with Geralt. Part of him already wonders why the Witcher has stayed as long as he has. There would hardly be work enough to keep him this long, and by now it is clear Jaskier will not die from his wounds, there is no more need to stay and watch over him. It would not be unlike the other man to bid him well and continue on without him.

Still, he knows it is a conversation that will need to be had, their current situation can hardly continue on forever. He tries to touch on it one morning, having caught the man checking in on him, likely planning to vanish for the rest of the day. Jaskier was already awake, sitting up in bed and making another futile attempt at writing lyrics. He holds up a hand, calling Geralt into the room, having decided now is as good as time as any to stumble through this conversation.

Geralt complies, stepping into the room and letting the door fall closed behind him.

He is surprised when Geralt speaks first, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine- no, not- I’m healing.”

Geralt grunts out an affirmative, “good.” Before falling silent.

Jaskier almost shudders at the tension in the air, the awkward air spurring him to begin to ramble, talking with roundabout avoidance, not saying anything that actually needs to be said.

But eventually his rambling scrape too close to all they are ignoring. A trailing thought about the difficulties of capturing down the beauty of sunlight streaming through the cracked curtain, his one real connection to the outside world at this time, leads him to voice the off-hand thought “assuming I ever can play again, or have anywhere to play it.”

At this Geralt cuts in, sharply, voice low and gruff, “You’ll play again, like I said, we will have it replaced.”

The lute, Jaskier knows is what he is referring to. Still, he almost wants to ask, wants to push, ask how long it will be until Geralt thinks to replace the musician along with the instrument, when he realises how deep the damages run.

But he does not, instead he sighs, “That’s not all that worries me about it, about… playing again.”

Geralt grunts, looking away, “Join me for dinner tonight.”

“What?” Jaskier frowns, not following this new train of conversation. 

“Down, in the inn.” Geralt pauses, looking him over, “you’ve been in this room too long Jask, it will do you good to get out again.”

He nods in response, still confused, and trying to hide the little shiver of fear that strikes him at the thought of leaving the save haven he had found in this room.

Geralt almost appears to smile at this, eyes crinkling and lips flicking up slightly, an almost undetectable amount. He nods back, “the change of scenery will do you good,” Geralt says, standing to leave, seemingly satisfied by the thought that the bard will finally leave this room.

Jaskier watches him go, trying not to think about all that still needed to be said between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a one shot i shout, fading into the distance.   
> -on another note i've spent the last two days lying in bed feeling like death so if anything is even more wonky than usual that's why


	4. Interlude: A momentary change of perspective.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -A brief look from Geralt's POV-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is basically ignorable from actual plot relavence stuff honestly.

It started with a lute, lying cracked in a ditch off the side of the road. It had been a little over a day sense he had seen its owner, leaving Jaskier behind to complete a job. The man was supposed to be safe, out of reach of whatever monster Geralt had been tasked to fight.

Instead Geralt had returned to find him gone. That alone was not enough to be concerning, perhaps the bard had simply tired of waiting, deciding to continue on to the next town alone.

They had grown comfortable it seems, both forgetting the ever-present dangers invited by traveling the open road unaccompanied.

In truth he had not worried at all at the bard’s absence, lazily continuing on his way to town, until he saw it, lying there, abandoned on the side of the road. And then it was as though his heart had turned to ice, the fear clutching at it, stopping it in its tracks.

He knew what it meant, seeing it there, discarded and broken. He knew its owner would have never willingly left it.

He doesn’t remember much of actually finding the bard, similarly beaten and bloody, lying neglected in the dirt. His mind clouded with the potions running through his veins, mixed with unbridled rage and… _fear_. 

Fear he would be too late. That Jaskier already lay dead somewhere, alone and cold. That all he would gain that evening is the sick satisfaction of cutting down the men who had killed his bard.

But then he had found him. Broken, abandoned, but alive.

Alive and kicking, he had almost wanted to cry with joy when he heard Jaskier’s scream, he was not too late after all.

He had tugged him up, fear fighting the need to be gentle, moving as quickly as time would allow.

The ride to town had been hell. He had pushed Roach, needing it to be over for his own sake as much as for Jaskier’s. The smell of fresh blood had overwhelmed his senses, sticking deep in the back of his throat. He found himself listening desperately for the wheeze of Jaskier’s breath, the only thing to confirm the bard was still not yet dead.

He had bullied his way in to see the healer, practically looming over the man as he worked. Though there was little the man could do for him, handing over various mixes to numb the pain but offering little more in terms of help. Bed rest and time, it was decided, were the only cures for the bard’s ailments.

So, he bullied his way into the inn. Or he had planned to, instead he found the innkeeper surprisingly sympathetic to his plight. Jaskier, it seemed was not the first traveller… interrupted before reaching town in recent months, the inn suffering in turn.

The clearing of that particular blight earning him access to a room for at least a few weeks or so, with promise of longer if he was willing to make himself useful around the place during their stay.

He agreed without thinking about it, anything to secure a safe place for Jaskier to recover. With a little… pushing, he was able to secure a spot in the loft for himself, the inn unable to spare two serviceable rooms. He would not let himself stay with the bard, no matter how much he desired to, telling himself that the last thing Jaskier needed was further disturbance and discomfort.

He stayed with Jaskier to begin with, in the first few days, before the man was seemingly even coherent enough to realise what had happened to him. Wiping the sweat off his brow, waiting for the fever to break, for Jaskier to come back to him.

Finally, he was rewarded, Jaskier woke up, Jaskier was alive and whole and _there_.

And Geralt was scared. So so scared. Gods, he had no idea what he was doing. He didn’t do this part, the healing. He showed up, fought the monsters and left the broken behind in his dust. Left it to others to pick up their shattered remains and patch it back together again.

He had no idea what to do here, in the… _after_. How to help, how to care, to mend another being.

He falls back on what the healer had said. The healer had said time and rest, the healer had said leave him be, let time sew broken bones together. Don’t disturb him. Don’t rush him, don’t push him.

So Geralt does just that, he tucks himself out of the way, giving Jaskier time, busying himself in needless work, helping out in the inn wherever he can to insure they keep the room, giving Jaskier as much time as he can afford.

He watches from a distance as the bard slowly seems to knit himself together, colour returning to his face, cuts fading to scars, wondering when it will be done.

Wondering what it will mean to be done. Humans are such fragile things; wounds stay with them for such a long time.

But it had been promised he would heal, maybe not perfectly, maybe the ribs would still ache on occasion, if pushed too hard, one wrist wound never truly be as strong as it once was, clicking softly when rotated, but healed.

His bard, back and whole, traveling with him once more.

He would see it happen, assuming Jaskier wanted to, assuming the bard did not blame Geralt. He would not blame him if he did. Geralt had failed him. Geralt had allowed… this, and now the bard would forever carry the scars from his mistake. No, he would not blame the man if he chose to leave him, if he chose to find other traveling companions, ones more… attentive, compassionate, in ways Geralt did not know how to be.

He was not one to hope, but he could not help sometimes, wishing it would not be so, hoped the bard would forgive him, clung to the idea that this could all be repaired. The bard would forgive him for being so damn slow to notice his disappearance, to respond.

That all could be fixed and forgiven, if only given enough time to do so.


	5. A Cordial Meal

He finds himself pacing before the closed door. He is up and dressed, that standing as an achievement within itself. And now he is… stuck here, pacing like a fool.

He’s not even sure what is holding him back, well no, he knows what, _fear._ What he doesn’t know is what he fears. Logically, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just dinner. Downstairs, he doesn’t even have to leave the building. There’s no reason to be this worked up about dinner, he has eaten in plenty of inns before, this is hardly new. And Geralt will be there, no reason to fear… whatever it was that had him so terrified.

He stops in front of the door, telling himself this is all just… foolish. Its just dinner. His fingers brush the doorknob, heart jackhammering within his chest. He can do it, he _can’t_ do it.

The door swings open, though not of his touch, Jaskier all but jumping aside so as not to be hit.

Geralt raises an unimpressed eyebrow from the doorway, “ready?” he asks, already stepping aside to let Jaskier pass.

“Yes, yes of course!” Jaskier replies, with as much fake bravado as he can manage. 

He lets the Witcher lead the way, trying not to feel like a lost duckling trailing after its mother as he sticks as close as possible to the other man, flinching at shadows and unexpected noises. Geralt either genuinely doesn’t notice or at the very least gives him the courtesy of pretending the bard’s actions appear normal.

His breath hitches as they step into the main room of the inn. It’s small, cosy. Pleasant really. He is particularly grateful to see how sparsely occupied the room is.

Geralt carefully guides him over to a small table in the corner of the inn. He wants to make some dig at it, at Geralt’s persistent desire to ‘sit in the corner and brood’… But right now, he understands it, it feels… secure. Protected on two sides, clear vantage point of the rest of the space, the safest spot in the room.

Geralt waves over the innkeeper, he does not complain when the Witcher goes ahead and orders for both of them, tongue sticking firmly in his mouth. It’s strange, being so close to another person, a stranger, after so long alone.

He tries to settle as they wait for their meal. Tries to ignore the nervous twitch beneath his skin. Fingernails drum against the table, leg bouncing wildly under the table.

Geralt grumbles at the noise, frowning at Jaskier’s tapping hand. He shrinks under the gaze, retracting the hand, lets restless fingers silently carve into the flesh of his calf instead of the wooden tabletop.

An… uneasy silence falls between them. Jaskier has never enjoyed uneasy silences, preferring to fill them with chatter, no matter how meaningless. But now… he doesn’t feel he even knows where to start and can’t help but worry about where aimless rambling might take him.

He sits for as long as is bearable, nails digging into flesh, studying the grain of the table, before finally he breaks. He starts with a question, try coax Geralt into talking as well, avoid the risks of rambling, “So, what have you been doing all this time?”

“Working.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, he wouldn’t have guessed there would be enough monsters in the area to keep Geralt busy for long, still, hunts meant stories, and stories meant songs, so he presses further. “Working- you’ve found enough troublesome creatures in the area to keep yourself paid and occupied? well do tell then, anything interesting?”

Geralt frowns, “No, not-” He looks away, Jaskier would think he looks almost embarrassed, if it where possible for the Witcher to be embarrassed. “Not that kind of work. Other stuff, odd jobs, manual labour mostly.”

Jaskier sits for a moment in stunned silence. It feels so foreign, imagining Geralt, doing manual labour. Not that the man wouldn’t be capable of it, he was sure Geralt was more than capable, but the thought of him doing it for others, for pay, Jaskier found himself unsure of how to respond. He almost wants to leave it, change the subject or let the uneasy silence return, seeing how uncomfortable the topic clearly makes Geralt, but he can’t resist pushing further.

“But- why?”

Geralt grunts, before reluctantly answering, “Wouldn’t have enough coin to pay for the room if I didn’t.”

Jaskier stares at him in amazed silence, trying desperately to understand what the Witcher was saying. He muddled over the words, letting them tumble through his brain. He felt as though he was trying to solve a puzzle, but one that was made up of extra pieces that didn’t fit in. Geralt’s words simply refused to make sense in his brain.

His confused pondering is only broken by the innkeepers return, bringing with two admittedly pleasant-smelling meals. It’s unsurprisingly basically the same food he’d been eating this entire time, just usually delivered by Geralt, snuck in and left on the small table of his room while he dosed.

Still, he digs in, studying Geralt as he eats, still trying to prise apart the man’s words and make sense of them.

Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes and sighs in response to the obvious scrutiny. “Jaskier, I can all but hear you thinking.”

“Sorry, it’s just- I’m trying to imagine it. You, working. I just… you know you didn’t have to stay, I’m not… dying.”

Geralt frowns again, “no, but you needed the room, and you’ve hardly been in a condition to earn the coin on your own.”

Ah, there’s the final puzzle piece, pity. Or maybe guilt, its hard to tell, the Witcher now refusing to meet his eyes, shifting restlessly in his seat. The man is just fulfilling his remaining sense of duty towards Jaskier, make sure he is taken care of before he moves on.

“Right. Thanks.” He knows the response is curt, rude even. More than he would like, but the thought of Geralt _pitying_ him has set him on edge.

Geralt’s frown deepens. “If the coin bothers you that much- I will not hold it as a dept against you Jaskier, and if it truly bothers you, you can pay it back once you are able.”

“It’s not about the coin _Geralt_.” He snarls out, hackles rising. “it’s- I don’t need your – your” ~~pity~~ “charity. I am not weak.” He spits out the final word. Trying to convince himself of the fact as much as the Witcher.

Geralt is all but scowling at the table, “You are weak, as all humans are Jaskier.”

If not for his still mending ribs he would have thrown himself across the table at that, knock the Witcher’s meal aside and attempt to beat some sense into the man.

For his credit, the Witcher seems to realise his mistake the moment he said it. Frown somehow deepening further as he squeezes tired eyes closed and utters an emotive “fuck.”

The Witcher rubs his temple, pausing before slowly continuing, “that’s not- I don’t think your weak Jaskier. This is not-“He sighs, seemingly searching for words, “I did not mean to insinuate that you were. But you were- you are, injured, you needed care, time and rest and… looking after. I am bad at- that. comfort, compassion. But the room, is something I could do. I could give you.”

The puzzle has scattered, pieces flying out of his fingers and disappearing into unreachable spots. At this point he’s not even sure it is a puzzle, perhaps he had spent this entire time trying to force Jenga blocks to make a pretty picture.

He opens his mouth, shuts it uselessly and opens it again. “You’ve been… looking after me.”

Geralt shifts uncomfortably, answering with a noncommittal shrug.

One thing is for sure, he does need time, time to… untangle everything that’s been said, attempt to make some sense of it. For now, he reaches a hand over, gently laying it on Geralt’s “I- thank you.”

Geralt looks up at him, “I mean it Jaskier, I don’t… think your weak.”

“No more than you think every man is weak.”

Geralt looks down, almost ashamed, “…yes.”

Jaskier nods, more to himself than the Witcher, “thank you- for the room. For staying. It has… helped.”

“That’s all I intended Jask, to help. I just… want to make sure you are able get better.”

The words tumble out of his mouth before he has time to stop them, “what if im never better.”

Geralt looks startled, “you will be, you already are, look at you Jaskier, your sitting up, eating a meal, two weeks ago you couldn’t have done that. You’re getting better. You will be well enough soon, well enough to leave that room more, get back to… things. Life.”

“What if better- what if better is different, and I’m never- never like I was before.”

“No one is who they where before.” He frowns, suddenly landing on a thought “you’ve seen my scars?”

“That’s hardly the same-“

“you’ve seen my scars?”

Jaskier resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Yes, yes of course I’ve seen your scars.”

“Every fight, every battle I come back at least a little bit different. Maybe it’s a wound, a new mark etched into my body, or something else, a shift in understanding, new information, new respect for my foe. Whatever it is, there is always something. No one goes through combat and remains unchanged. No one. So no, you won’t be who you where before, but you survived. And that means you will heal; you will get better.”

He does not know what to say, he does not know if there is anything to say. He sits there, adsorbing all that had been said.

They finish the meal in silence, for once he struggles to feel the need to break it. He does speak again, finally once done eating, he gives Geralt a nervous smile and says, “I’m tired.”

Geralt responds easily, “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

“thank you.”

Later, lying back in that familiar bed he finds himself unable to sleep, stuck replaying the conversation, teasing out each of the Witcher’s words, trying to make it all fit together, into just one simple image in his head. He drifts off still searching for such an answer to appear from his mess of an understanding of Geralt.


	6. Unfortunate coincidences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check updated tags for warning/minor spoiler for this chapter.

After the dinner things improve, slowly. He begins to venture out more, if only down to the inn, not yet daring to go further. At first, he only goes with Geralt, sticking to the man like glue, refusing to be left alone.

But eventually he dares to leave the room without the Witcher, wandering down in the early afternoon to soak in the change of scenery. To begin with he only stays while the inn is next to empty mind you, the moment it begins to fill for the evening he usually finds himself turning tail and scurrying back to the safety of the upstairs.

But even that is good. It feels good, to go out, to let himself breathe. He strikes up a sort of friendship with the innkeeper, grateful to have someone else to talk to. Someone he can ramble to without fear of treading into dangerous territory.

Sometimes, increasingly, he finds himself yearning for more, staring at the doorway with restless energy, wishing he had the will to venture out further, re-join the rest of the world. In the end it is Geralt who gives him the opening to do so. The Witcher had joined him for supper, and, in idle conversation mentioned a market, held regularly in the town square.

“It’s on tomorrow, if you wanted to accompany me.”

He feels his throat catch at the idea, mind whirling. Does he want to accompany Geralt? Yes, undoubtedly, the thought of finally, finally leaving this building, feeling the sun on his skin, breathe in the fresh air… But a market. A market meant people, a lot of people. But Geralt would be there, he could stick close, keep up his ~~pathetic~~ regular habit of trailing after the man like a lost puppy.

He realises Geralt has paused, watching him, waiting for an answer. He can’t say no, what reason could he give, that wouldn’t make the Witcher think him more weak, unable to even go to a market?

He gulps down the knot in his throat, licks his lips nervously and answers, “I- I would love to, thank you.”

Geralt nods in acknowledgement, and it is done, matter agreed upon. Tomorrow, for the first time in, gods what had it been? A month? He would leave this building. Ah. Shit.

He spends the night restless, tossing and turning, anxious anticipation keeping him awake. He finally manages to drift off into a light dose some time in the early morning, only to be awoken by Geralt knocking on his door not long after.

He dresses hurriedly, stumbling out into the hallway to meet the Witcher. The rushed energy enough to propel him down the stairs and out the front door almost without even noticing it. 

He notices once he’s outside. He stops, almost awe struck, it’s a surreal feeling, returning to the world after so long. He soaks it in, taking a moment just to observe the general hustle and bustle of the town, as small and charming as the inn had been.

It’s surprisingly populated, with small clusters of people wandering by, most heading in one direction. The same direction Geralt is now patiently motioning for them to move in, towards the market he assumes.

The market is beautiful, larger than expected, a sprawling spread of shops and stalls, selling everything from fishing lures to blueberry jam. The air is sweet with the smell of freshly baked goods, children stream past, fresh flowers tucked in their hair. Somewhere, not too far off, just audible over the chatter, a bard can be heard, singing a merry tune.

It’s stunning, almost picturesque in its beauty. And more than a little bit overwhelming for a tired man who hadn’t ventured beyond the threshold of the front door of an inn in over a month.

He sticks close to Geralt to begin with, trailing directly behind the Witcher as he moves through the crowd, pausing occasionally at certain stalls, although Jaskier can see no rhyme or reason as to where he choses to stop.

Slowly though, he finds himself growing more bold. It starts with him hanging back just for a moment at one of the stalls Geralt stopped at, pausing to try the wild flower honey being pushed into his hands, before he realises the situation and rushes away to catch up with the Witcher. 

The taste of freedom, of normality, is enough. Before he knows it, he is bouncing throughout the crowd, pausing wherever he pleased, striking up pleasant conversation with shopkeepers and peddlers, letting himself get lost in the wonderous rabble of the crowd.

He is however weary enough to always keep Geralt in site, not daring to let himself venture too far from the Witcher. Geralt seems not to mind, simply continuing on with… whatever unknown mission he seems to be on.

He indulges, buys himself a sweet bun, ignores the little voice telling him it’s a waste of coin, that he should save the little he has, find a way to pay back Geralt.

A passing florist tucks a flower into his hair, he doesn’t know enough about them to know what it’s called, but its sweet smell fills his nostrils, trailing along with him as he dances through the thong of people.

He laughs, dizzy, head spinning in the best of ways, gods, he hadn’t even realised how deeply he had missed this.

Then someone pushes past, not intentionally cruelty, but heavy, He registers it, the hard nudge sending him stumbling slightly backwards. He’s ready to brush it off, ignore it, maybe trail back to Geralt’s side for a time, catch his breath again. When it hits him. The smell.

It’s so instantly recognisable. The passer-by, he smells like they did. Sweet with sweat and decay, unwashed clothes stained in blood and ash. It seems to invade his senses, pushing in, enveloping him in that- _smell._

He can’t breathe. He tries, gulping in air, it seems to do nothing, he can’t breathe, lungs tightening, flaring up with pain. He clutches at his chest, almost expecting to once again feel it slick with blood. His vision blurs, tunnelling in on one spot of the ground. The scuffed dirt, so familiar, he remembers what it tasted like, face pressed into the dust, choking as it spread into his mouth…

He can’t breathe, he can’t see, can’t move, can’t do anything at all.

There are large hands, cupping his face, pressing down. He is vaguely aware of a voice that accompanies them, but he doesn’t have mind enough to make out the words it seems to be trying to be saying.

He thinks he can make out one, ‘breathe’ he wants to scream, he’s trying, dammit. He’s trying to breathe, trying to suck in air to closed lungs. He wants to laugh, at the insanity of it all, almost wonders if it had all been a waste, maybe he would die here, choke to death thanks to his stupid and stubborn lungs.

Still. He pushes on. Trying, taking in mouthfuls of air, breath slowly growing more steady and even, vision returning, expanding beyond that one patch of trodden ground.

He becomes aware of Geralt, still cradling his face, telling him to breathe. Aware of the people streaming past them with little more than an odd glance towards them. It struck him then, how few staring eyes Geralt had attracted throughout the day. Struck him how… comfortable Geralt seemed to have become here.

“Breathe Jask.”

He pulls back, knocking away the hands, musters out an, “I’m fine.” He can tell Geralt doesn’t believe him. To be fair he wouldn’t believe himself either.

Geralt doesn’t push however, letting him get away with the lie. Someone else pushes past, an inch to close, knocking Jaskier’s shoulder, he flinches away before he can stop himself, feeling his heart speed up once again. Geralt sighs, reaches out and tugs Jaskier closer to him, shielding him somewhat from the crowd.

Jaskier tries not to startle at the closeness, only just managing to hold himself back from pressing in closer, against Geralt.

The Witcher rests a comforting hand on Jaskier’s shoulder before asking, “want to leave?”

He stutters, unsure of how to respond. He does, he wants out, wants to turn tail and run. But part of him holds him back, wanting to prove he isn’t weak, he isn’t going to just slink away and hide at the first sign of trouble.

He hears Geralt hum questioningly, thumb gently stroking against Jaskier’s neck.

“We can go somewhere quieter, if you would prefer?”

At that he nods, trying to hide just how relieved the idea makes him, though judging from Geralt’s following hum he is unsuccessful at it.

He lets the Witcher guide him through the crowd, the comforting hand remaining on his back, He is thankful for the touch, grounding him. Reminding him he is here and whole and okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -apologies if it feels like an abrupt place to leave it, this was gonna be the final chapter but then it got way too long so i split it in two, so we still got one more to go folks but the end is in sight (and already like half written - apparently this is how i respond to my work dicking me over and trying to kill me with stress now.)


	7. Reassurance and Resolution

Geralt leads him easily through the town, Jaskier realising he has no idea where they are anymore, long having lost track of where they came in. But Geralt seems to know the town well, quickly leading them out of the centre square and through the twisting streets, where the crowds lessened, and fewer venders line the way.

Geralt continues on, leading them to the outskirts of town, then further, past the buildings, along a winding dirt road, overlooking soft meadows and fruit orchards.

He takes a moment, breathing in the crisp air. It’s nice out here, peaceful in a way the market inevitably wasn’t. He watches Geralt, the light catching on his hair, the Witcher he realises looks… good. Calm, in a way he rarely got to be, and, Jaskier noted, not unkindly, unusually clean.

He can’t help but comment on it, “you seem… comfortable here.”

Geralt merely grunts in response.

Jaskier is unsure why but he decides to press on, “familiar, you know the town well enough, its inhabitants.”

The Witcher offers an offhanded shrug. “The people have… adjusted to me.” He sighs, looking over at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye, “They tolerate me, don’t mistake that for them welcoming my presence. And-” He pauses, stopping and staring out over the field they where passing, “I… I look forward to moving on again.”

Jaskier makes a low noise, not really surprised at the news, but unsure if he really wants to breach this topic just yet. He watches the Witcher, wishing he was better at reading the man, guessing what he was thinking.

He follows Geralt’s gaze, out over the lush green land, lets his mind wander, to past trips and travels, slogging through open fields so like the one before them. Chasing down Geralt through twisting thigh high grass, ignoring the Witcher’s insistence that he should stay back, wait for the Witcher to go deal with the big bad without him.

He can’t help the smile that graces his lips, at the many memories welling up within him.

He glances over at Geralt, wondering if it brings back the same memories for Geralt. Or maybe the man is thinking of other times. Times without Jaskier.

Geralt seems to feel his gaze, turning to meet his eye. Jaskier flushes at being caught staring, turning back to the field. He hears Geralt hum pleasantly beside him, gently knocking their shoulders together. Geralt speaks again, finally, low and calm “it is pleasant enough here, but I am not made for this life.”

Jaskier sighs, “you are made for the open road, travel, grand adventure.”

He hears Geralt snort at that, “no one bothered to call them grand before you came along.”

“They should have, it’s what your made for.”

“I’m made for fighting. I go where there are monsters to rid, that is what I’m made for. I’m as much made for grandeur as I am made for… quaint village markets.”

He steals a line from Geralt, humming in response as he continues to stare out over the wide-open space. He thinks about what he is made for, before it would have been an easy question to answer, he was made for the open road, adventure, going wherever he could find a captivated audience, pockets lined with coin they could be convinced to part with. 

Now… what will he be made for now? He wishes he could say the same, his heart still yearning for travel, for the wonderous freedom of the open road. But now that freedom was tinged, stained in blood and fear. 

He wonders what it will be like now, to venture out into the world, what would be the new cost of travel? Nervous shivers and hair standing on end, shrinking back from the dark, hand always dancing over the hilt of a hidden blade, eyes straining desperately in an attempt to make out shapes within the darkness.

He thinks he can feel the Witcher’s eyes on him, though he dare not turn to check, not wanting yet to once again face the man, break whatever still spell they seem to have found themselves under.

But silence cannot last forever, eventually the urge to speak becomes too great, he finds himself asking, “Why stay so long somewhere you aren’t made for?”

“I’ve said. You needed the rest, and I would not have left you in the… state you were in.”

He hums again, “I think I’m near well enough now, strong enough to sing again at any rate.”

He hears Geralt huff, risks a glance and is rewarded by the site of the Witcher smiling, “If you are up to it I’m sure the tavern would enjoy a performance, after how long you’ve spent trapped within its walls.”

He smiles back for a moment, caught in the thought of once more twirling through a crowded inn, a bustling and captive crowd, lute in hand – as quickly as it had appeared the smile vanishes, reality once again setting in “I can’t- my lute…” he trails off, the truth of the situation beginning to sink in. He has no instrument, and nowhere near enough coin to replace it, not to mention keep him alive for the time it would take to have one made.

To his surprise Geralt’s smile grows, “I wouldn’t worry about that. This town may be small, but its not without a luthier, and while I fear the commissioned piece perhaps won’t be… the highest quality of instrument that you are used to, it should at least tide you over until a more suitable replacement is found.”

“Commissioned… you bought me a _lute?_ ”

“Jaskier-“

“You bought me a _fucking lute_ Geralt?!”

Jaskier thinks if the Witcher could blush he just might be, “you don’t… have to take it if you don’t want it Jaskier.”

“Don’t want- of course I want it. You bought me an entire _fucking_ lute.”

Now he swears the Witcher is blushing, “It should be finished soon. You will be free to play and… earn your own coin again, soon enough.”

Earn his own coin, go his own way, of course it came back to that, it always seemed to now days. But he does not want to have that… ~~fight~~ discussion, now. So he pushes his remaining cheer into his voice, refusing to allow the Witcher to notice any drop in tone as he answers, “Right, it… will be good to play again, finally test the few songs I’ve managed to write while squirreled away inside.”

It seems to have worked, Geralt nodding in agreement, “It will be good to hear you play, and afterwards… maybe you will be well enough to spend less time inside, perhaps… perhaps even think about… getting back on the road.” He shoots Jaskier a surprisingly nervous glance, before asking, “I was wondering-do you imagine you will still want to accompany me, when you are well enough to leave that is?”

He blinks, thrown by the directness of the question, managing little more than a startled, “what?” once again finding himself utterly lost and confused by the Witcher’s words.

Geralt continues on quickly, “you don’t have to if you don’t wish to, I am happy to simply escort you… elsewhere… if there is a place you would wish to stay, or simply until you find better suited traveling companions, if that is what you want.”

Traveling companions… he lets out a startled, desperate laugh, high and manic, instantly regretting it as the action sends a jolt of sharp pain through his rib cage, a less than pleasant reminder of his continued injuries.

He doesn’t know what to make of anything that was being said, the man buys him a lute, and then talks of… what? Nobly chaperoning him to some better suited save haven before finally leaving him?

He will not… appease the Witcher’s guilt or pity, of that was what this was, he would take no more charity, not let himself indulge in one final trip before it is all ripped away from him. No. it’s better it ends here and now, He tells Geralt as much, saying, “if you wish to leave without me than you should just go, I am sure I came capable of finding my own way on from here.”

Geralt lets out a… sound, he almost wants to call it a pained whine, from deep within his throat. “I do not wish to leave you Jaskier, I want- I need to know if you would still want to come with me after… I failed you, failed to be there when you needed me.”

Oh, definitely guilt then, but not in the way he had… expected. He had thought the Witcher perhaps felt guilt over allowing Jaskier to travel with him, allowing him to trail behind the Witcher until the inevitable had occurred and he got hurt.

He wasn’t expecting- didn’t realise- the Witcher would hold himself responsible for the misfortune that had befallen Jaskier. Hold himself responsible for something neither of them ever could have foreseen.

“I don’t- gods Geralt I don’t… _blame_ you for not- preventing this! There was- you can’t blame yourself. Gods, Geralt it was my choice to be out there, with you, my choice to head towards the town alone.”

“I left you behind Jask, and you- you almost died because of it. I could not blame you for wanting to leave me.”

“-I don’t- Geralt I don’t want to _leave_!”

“- Well good I don’t want you to leave.”

He’s shouting now, they both are “- Well good because I’m not going to!”

“Great!”

They stand there, just staring at one another. He laughs again, but this time calm, genuinely happy. He still regrets it, the pain not worth the expression of joy, ending with him hunched over, arms wrapped around his chest.

He feels Geralt’s hand on his back, soothing, straightens up as carefully as he can, trying to be gentle with himself.

Geralt’s hand shifts up, once again resting on his shoulder.

He says it, as it needs to be said, the reminder for both him and the Witcher “things won’t be exactly as they were before.”

“No, they won’t,” Geralt agrees easily, “but they do not need to be, and perhaps… perhaps we can make sure some of the things that are different are changed for the better.”

“Like… like this the- comfort, the touches? I… I like them, I would not complain if they continued.”

He swears Geralt once again flushes, looking away, but not removing his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder, before quietly admitting, “I would like that as well.”

Jaskier smiles back at Geralt, feeling himself flush, biting down the laugh threatening to bubble out through his lips, refusing to do any further damage to his ribs today.

He does not want to ruin the moment, but… he needs clarity, certainty, “other things will have to be different also. I won’t settle with being left behind at a campsite anymore, I think this has proven well enough that staying behind alone is no more dangerous than accompanying you would be”

Geralt sighs, “I may still insist you stay behind sometimes, though I will be sure to leave you in areas… better protected, don’t think this will stop me from telling you to stay at an inn as I would before.” 

“And I shall listen as often as I did before.”

Geralt snorts, shaking his head, the argument familiar enough he is sure the Witcher already knows he has no chance of winning it.

“And I’d like… a weapon, nothing big, something small, I can carry with me easily.” 

Geralt cocks his head, considering, “you’ve been thinking about this” he says.

Jaskier nods, he had, more than he was keen to admit to.

“I can teach you to use a blade if you wish, so the next time you wouldn’t have to sacrifice your instrument in a struggle.”

“I would like that.”

Geralt hums again, still smiling. Gods, he wants to bask in that smile, the warm light dancing across the man’s face, it was so much.

He realises the Witcher is still touching him, large hand resting comfortably on his shoulder, thumb rubbing in gentle circles against his neck.

He shakes his head softly, trying to recollect his thoughts, not let himself be distracted by Geralt’s soft touch, “you are being… surprisingly accepting of my demands Witcher, what else are you willing to bend to? What if I say one of my requirements is we purchase only the finest of wines, sweet cakes and rich meats… a new doublet in every town… A horse! fine silk sheets…” He runs out of steam, struggling to think anything else to demand.

He does not expect Geralt to nod seriously, clearly thinking before he answers, “we can get you a horse if you wish, it could be good for you to have an animal as well. Although… I hope you know will have to care for it yourself.”

He blinks, flustered at the honest answer, stumbles out a cheeky, “so agreeable, at this rate I fear I should start to wonder if this is all bribery, or a distraction for some greater transgression I have yet to know about.”

Geralt’s lip curls, “no, no hidden transgression, it’s just…” the Witcher shifts, face falling into a light frown, eyes dropping from Jaskier’s gaze, before he answers, “I- Gods, Jaskier when I saw your lute, all those weeks ago, I thought…” He pauses, swallowing deeply before continuing, “I don’t want to lose you.”

He feels himself choke at hearing the words, so honest and raw and holy unexpected. 

He doesn’t plan it, doesn’t give himself time to think, just pitches forward, rising ever so slightly onto tiptoes, to press a light kiss against Geralt’s lips.

He barely has time to pull back, feel the pangs of regret, register his minds one screaming thought of ‘ohgodsifuckedup’, before Geralt’s hand shifts to cup the back of his head, pulling him back in, closer, returning the kiss. He presses back eagerly, letting his mind fall blank, drinking in the taste of the Witcher.

He has to break away eventually, catch his breath, rest a hand on his aching ribs, gods he really had pushed them too far today.

He can feel Geralt’s gaze, the man watching closely as he gasped heavily, trying to regain his breath. “Okay?” he hears Geralt ask, unsure of whether the man is referring to his ribs or the kiss. Either way he nods, unable to hide his grin.

Once again Geralt smiles back, resting one of his hands against Jaskier’s cheek, gently cupping his face, “is this one of the things you wanted to be different?’ he asks.

Jaskier gulps in another breath, still beaming, “I admit I never would have dared to hope it could be but if you’re willing…”

Geralt pulls him close, and mumbles “Oh, I am very willing,” against Jaskier’s lips, before drawing him into another kiss. Jaskier leans in greedily, letting out a small whine when before long Geralt pulls away once more, although not going far, foreheads still lightly touching, both still breathing in the same air between them.

“Careful,” he hears the Witcher say, calm and clear, “we don’t want to… stain, your ribs any further.”

He can’t resist letting out a small growl, an irritated bite towards the Witcher, but relents, knowing he truly cannot take too much more that day.

But for once that fact doesn’t worry him. There will be other days, other smiles and sweet kisses, pressed against waiting lips.

He can wait, and rest, give tired bones more time to knit back together, not needing to rush. Because now he knows how much there is still to come.

So he can wait, he can heal.

Knowing he will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -aaand done, hopefully a satisfying ending for this mess. someone feel free to just hit me if i try to add more to it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading


End file.
